Till chidden--soothed--entreated--forced away; He would of coldness, though indulged, complain, And oft retire, and oft return again; When, if his teasing vex'd her gentle mind, The grief assumed compell'd her to be kind! For he would proof of plighted kindness crave, That she resented first, and then forgave; And to his grief and penance yielded more Than his presumption had required before. Ah! fly temptation, youth; refrain! refrain! Each yielding maid and each presuming swain! Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, One who an infant in her arms sustains, And seems in patience striving with her pains; Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread, Whose cares are growing--and whose hopes are fled; Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, And tears unnoticed from their channels flow; Serene her manner, till some sudden pain Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again; - Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes, And every step with cautious terror makes; For not alone that infant in her arms, But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms. With water burthen'd, then she picks her way, Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay; Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound, And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground; Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes, While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes; For when so full the cup of sorrow grows, Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows. And now her path, but not her peace, she gains, Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains; Her home she reaches, open leaves the door, And placing first her infant on the floor, She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits, And sobbing struggles with the rising fits: In vain they come, she feels the inflating grief, That shuts the swelling bosom from relief; That speaks in feeble cries a soul distress'd, Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd. The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies With all the aid her poverty supplies; Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys, Not led by profit, not allur'd by praise, And waiting long, till these contentions cease, She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace. Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid; She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid. But who this child of weakness, want, and care? 'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas Fair; Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes, Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies: Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart, For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart: "And then his prayers! they would a savage move, And win the coldest of the sex to love:" - But ah! too soon his looks success declared, Too late her loss the marriage-rite repair'd; The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot, A captious tyrant or a noisy sot: If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd; If absent, spending what their labours gain'd; Till that fair form in want and sickness pined,